The Four Dreams of Crowley
by The Devil's Westwood
Summary: He briefly considered breaking down the door at Aziraphale's, to give the angel no other choice but to resolve the dispute between them, then and there. But he respected their boundaries, he would never force his presence so quickly when it was clear that separation was best. So Crowley did the next best thing. He slept.


London: 1862

Crowley sauntered in, slamming the door behind him. It wasn't as if he had _meant _any additional discomfort or anguish for Aziraphale. Well, _perhaps _at leastno more than usual. After all: angel, demon. Minor inconveniences were bound to pop up once or twice in a century. It was a helpful way to keep their respective head offices from discovering the nature of their relationship, because Crowley knew better. He knew what would become of them, and by them more specifically _him_. And the more comfortable he became around Aziraphale, the more invested in their relationship and the Arrangement, the more sensibly worried he had become. He'd only wanted insurance, a way out if needed. He wasn't even entirely sure it would come down to needing to use it on himself. But Aziraphale's horrified gasp and the pain in his eyes had seen a definitive no to that.

"Suicide _pill,_" he hissed as he tossed his top head across the room, crossing the room in just a few, long steps as he reached into the alcohol cabinet for the first things he could get his hands on. Only an angel could come up with such a dramatic response to a simple request for insurance. It was so stereotypical for Aziraphale to play holier than thou about taking himself out of the equation if the need arose, when God sat around playing a game of chess with the lives of unsuspecting humans. They had both been present when the flood wiped out millions. But to persist now, when there was only one life on the line, made Crowley's blood boil.

"What 'about free will?" he muttered to no one in particular, throwing himself onto the bed still freely drinking from his bottle.

If he allowed himself to be honest, which he usually was concerning his friend, if Aziraphale had asked him for insurance, some hellfire or something forged in it, Crowley would be apprehensive. Well, apprehensive was an extremely delicate way of putting it. _But, _being a demon, he didn't want to consider that perspective. It's not as if that would ever arise anyway. Aziraphale would never, never, ever consider that sort of alternative. He was more careful with his words and actions, as well as his _misactions, _Crowley acknowledged.

It would ensure his forgiveness in Heaven, which was the singular thought Crowley kept coming back to. Surely Aziraphale could find a way to make Heaven understand he had carefully tricked a notorious demon into surrendering his trust, only to turn around and give him the means of his own destruction. The angel would probably get a medal. "My lot would never," he muttered, annoyed. It wasn't as if he had even wanted his lot, nor did he really want to be associated with them.

Perhaps that was part of the reason why he had asked for _that. _No self-respecting demon would ever be able to speak those words, or even get anywhere close to writing them down on paper. But Crowley had. Sure, he had some restraint and it had crossed his mind a couple of centuries before he had actually summoned the courage, but he'd done it anyway.

He groaned, rolling his head back into the bed underneath him, sinking further into it. That, of course, was all so little of the real problem. If he _really _acknowledged what was bothering him-well, he wasn't sure he wouldn't burst into flames.

_Fraternizing. _He'd never completely admit to himself just how much that had stung, but he was pretty sure the holy water would've hurt less. Sure, he was certain his feel-_attachment_ ran a little deeper than Aziraphale's. But, he had hoped after a certain amount of time _his_ angel would let his guard down around him just a little bit more. Trust him just a little bit more. Enjoy his _company_ just a little bit more. He felt as if that wasn't too much to ask. He grumbled something to himself about Aziraphale's need to keep his distance.

Part of his mind, however, pushed away the overwhelming anger he felt, the anger that had been boiling like hot magma inside of him the entire way back from St. James's Park. That part of his mind called out to the way Aziraphale had looked at him in a sort-of _horror _when he saw what was written on the note. They usually had such lovely chats when they went to the park together; they would recount details of their deeds for their respective head offices, taunt and tease the other into miracles or temptations, and discuss delicacies they had tried and insist the other join them for a spot of lunch. _Well_, Crowley thought, usually it was Aziraphale introducing dishes he had never even heard faint whispers in the wind about, which (more often than not) sparked a small smile from him as he watched the angel's eyes light up like they always did everytime he spoke animatedly about his passions. Other times mentions of food were followed by Crowley asking and then allowing Aziraphale to lead him, while Crowley gave directions down back alleyways in London to little restaurants whose floors creaked when you walked on them and looked like the sorts of places you'd expect Aziraphale to avoid. Crowley was always more infinitely impressed by those little places than the fancy ones, even if he'd never admit it because he _did _rather enjoy the art that went into piecing together clothing for a nicer evening out as much as he enjoyed Aziraphale enthusiastically chattering about the bright, spotless ambience, music gently played in the background by the hands of masterful musicians who never missed a note.

What was it Aziraphale had even been saying before he had gently held out his hand with that damned folded piece of parchment paper, sparking all of this in the first place? Something about, _pears? _Crowley would curse himself, if only gently, if he wasn't certain someone else would hear him do it and come barging up to his door demanding answers. He couldn't completely fault Aziraphale for being so upset, if he was honest with himself. Their usual meetings didn't involve Crowley asking for 'contraband'. He bit his lip. But _why _did Aziraphale even care if to him, all they were doing was fraternizing. And more puzzling, _why _was it really bothering him so much. His brain had been onto something about it earlier, but he'd pushed it aside. He knew he ought to push it aside again. Nothing good usually came from such thoughts, he knew. He was a demon after all. He'd sparked those thoughts against others so many times, maybe them admit to the little whisperings inside their heads by making them as annoying as a fly circling around your ears.

Aziraphale was flushed. He had seen the color drain from hi-_the_ angel's already pale features and chose to ignore it. He had been too determined to get through the request without interruption. If Crowley had a human heart, it would have been thumping outside of his chest with nerves. He had still felt his corporation build a few drops a sweat that dropped down his head to his neck. He had ignored that, too. He didn't really think about the objections coming from Aziraphale before _fraternizing _stumbled out of his mouth, in slow motion to Crowley's ears. His anger immediately burned when it registered inside his head.

"Shouldn't matter," Crowley grumbled, taking another swift drink from the dark glass bottle. For anyone else, the bottle would've emptied and caused a rather unfortunate need to clamber out of bed to grab another. But, the bottle seemed to refill itself moments after Crowley swallowed the bitter liquid.

So, why, _why _did it matter?

Echoes of '_it would destroy you,' _seemed to bounce around the room, threatening to reveal some sort of unspoken truth or at the very least some unspoken _desire. _He swatted at the air before he rolled to his side, his arm dangling off of the bed. The neck of the bottle twirled between his fingers absentmindedly.

This argument would pass, he reasoned. They'd gotten this far in their partnership for it to suddenly just end now. He pinched the bridge of his nose. What was there to do besides wait it out a reasonable amount of time until he could make a reappearance? There'd be time for that, he knew that too. He groaned and thought, 'but the_ waiting'. _Some distant part of his mind chimed, '_patience is a virtue,' _which caused his corporation to produce a small amount of acid to rise up in the back of his throat. He bit his lip, repressing the feeling.

He briefly considered breaking down the door at Aziraphale's, to give the angel no other choice but to resolve the dispute between them, then and there. But he respected their boundaries, he would never force his presence so quickly when it was clear that separation was best.

So Crowley did the _next _best thing.

He slept.*

-  
*_Scientific studies about human sleeping habits and the dreams usually produced in REM cycles were still about 200 years away from the time Crowley started his nap. Regardless, it shouldn't have mattered. Crowley, after all, was a demon. Demons didn't need sleep, and none had willingly ever slept-with the natural exception of Crowley. He was, on most occasions, the exception to what demons did or didn't do. There was the unpleasant time a nun hit Hastur upside the head with a porcelain cross. It had resulted in a nasty burn across the back of his head (which in some ways actually improved his appearance as Crowley had helpfully pointed out), and rendered him unconscious for a brief period of time outside of the small cathedral in a French town that was shortly after found burned down. Still, that could hardly be called sleep. Even if demons did sleep, most trusted no one enough to let themselves fall into a deep enough sleep or long enough rest that a REM cycle could produce a dream. And even if they did, they certainly didn't possess the required unconscious imagination to fuel dreams._

_But those were other demons and this was Crowley, who had been in his corporation for over 1500 continuous years since the last discorporation, with another 3000 years (give or take) on Earth. This was Crowley who had been heavily influenced by the expanding and growing world around him, who had experienced more of humanity than his fellow demons; certainly enough to pick up a few _

human _habits._

_And as previously stated, the human habit of dreaming comes alongside falling into a deep sleep, as science would eventually learn. But dreams aren't an exact science, no matter what your great-aunt with the decorative white dream catcher might tell you. But, there is usually some influences from unconscious desires or fond memories.  
_

1773: Boston

Personally, Crowley loathed crowds. The beauty of being on Earth so long was he managed, for the most part, to avoid the overcrowding of Hell. Demons almost smashed and molded into one trying to walk the hallways. The walls always seemed to shrink the second another demoned joined the corridor, strong odors filled the nose of rotten flesh and sulfur. You couldn't move anywhere without brushing against someone else, which always left him feeling like he'd rather melt the other demons around him just to get them out of his way. Not that _he_ would've gotten away with that, of course, but it didn't keep the desire from rising in the back of his mind. He was grateful on Earth he could snap his fingers, clear the pathway around him, freeing himself of the inconvenience of others blocking his path. Instead, the knot of dissatisfied union workers left him scrambling for the nearest exit back to the spread out chaos of Earth. Head office often wondered how he managed to stay among humans for so long, he wondered how they hadn't figured out it would be a sickeningly beautiful idea to overcrowd every corner of the Earth, leaving people suffocated. However, today he found no difference between the wider streets of Boston leading to the docks and the narrow walkways in Hell.

He hadn't _meant _to be late, he told himself, but then he usually didn't mean to be late. It seemed almost against his nature to have _good _time management skills. No matter what he tried, there was always some prior engagement, some little whisper that grabbed his attention and pulled him away from his task. Being a demon, he could control time, make it freeze to his will, even if only momentarily. It should've been enough to ensure he made his engagements with plenty of time to spare. That was the case about as many times as Heavenly angels showed up to their engagements even mere moments after the arranged time. _Fashionably late_, he had coined it. Crowley was innately _fashionably late. _And most days that didn't matter. But, today he was aware he couldn't quite risk someone noticing him popping up like a daisy in the crowd. He'd stick out too much in his black ensemble, he wouldn't be conspicuous enough in the masses. And, oh, how he wanted to see how this played out.  
He had only momentarily been held up by _oversleeping_. He couldn't help it, it had been awhile since he had an opportunity to ignore his mind shouting commands to get up and moving. And it wasn't as if Hell would care if he missed the day's events. His part had already been played, he had already slithered his way into the highest possible position he could. His carefully timed opinions dripped into the ears of Samuel Adams, like a raindrop slowly moving across a leaf and falling into the ground. Events had already been leading this way, but the extra encouragement had secured him a small round of praise from Beelzebub. Watching what the Sons of Liberty would actually do with his suggestions, well, that was more of personal interest.

He briefly considered abandoning his corporation to adapt to a longer, slithering option, but humans had a tendency to break out into shrills of terror whenever he did that. He couldn't quite grasp why they shifted to doing that, when the nice woman in the garden hadn't seemed to mind at all when a snake had come up to her and started hissing things in her ears. She had almost seemed happy to see him, but nowadays he received a chorus of mixed reactions. Instead, he twisted and turned, focusing his energy on getting through the herds as quickly and efficiently as possible. By the time he decided he didn't care about the consequences, by the time he had rationalized it would be in his nature to stir up a little more trouble and watch everyone scramble to get out of his way, he was a little too overwhelmed to focus enough energy to actually shift. He stumbled, left, right, back, left again, forward, and so on. His heart thumped heavily against his human body, too fast and too slow at the same time. He tried to focus on breathing through his nose, tried to regain his composure. It didn't seem to help, and he became even more aware of his lack of control as he spilled forward in the crowd, bumped by a sudden wave of excitement. It just sounded like loud cheers and muffled words in his ears, but the energy picked up. Then, without warning, his feet planted suddenly in a stop. His eyes fixed on one figure. The beating of his heart became a different type of slowed, but Crowley couldn't quite place the nature of the shift.

He'd know _him _anywhere, even in a crowd of more than 6000. He stood there for a moment, collecting himself, his eyes never leaving the slightly plump man standing no more than 100 feet from him. He wore a plain, but elegant white coat with wide revers. The small stand-up collar perfectly rose against his neck, accenting it very well. You could hardly see the deep cuffs behind large pocket flaps. His shirt had small sleeve ruffles had a narrow stock. The white of his jacket was nicely accented by light browns, and just a small splash of blue, accenting the attire in little patterns. His hair was curled loosely, tucked lightly behind his ear. Crowley always liked when Aziraphale wore his hair longer, it reminded him of the first meeting in Eden. It was positively ethereal and Crowley wasn't sure how anyone else could look anywhere _but _at Aziraphale. Even in a crowd, his fashion choices made him stick out, though this was the first he could remember Aziraphale looking like he had really made an attempt to blend in.

Crowley, calmed and collected, completed the distance between, and somehow managed the quickest and most direct steps he had taken all morning. He leaned forward carefully, just enough to make sure his mouth would align with Aziraphale's ear, a small smirk already plastered on his face. It was 674 A.D. when the angel had mustered the bravery to tell Crowley off for sneaking up on him. He still took advantage when the opportunity presented itself, but on special occasions. "The arrangementttt," he hummed, the vibrations tickling against Aziraphale's ear, causing the angel's hand to fly up and swat at the source. Crowley chuckled, low in his throat, sliding his body around to Aziraphale's left and barely avoiding a light pop on the cheek.

Aziraphale rubbed his earlobe with his fingers, eyes narrowing to look at Crowley. Crowley smiled brightly, flashing his teeth. "Crowley," Aziraphale groaned, his shoulders sinking in disapproval. "I do believe I asked you to stop doing that," his voice whined in a polite whisper. He put his hand back in his pocket, resuming his restless fidgeting.

"And I do _believeee _we agreed I would take this one," Crowley chimed back, not missing a beat. He stood tall next to Aziraphale, leaning slightly closer to the angel to avoid contact with anyone else.

Aziraphale sighed, eyes glancing back and forth across the crowd as if trying to speak through gestures. Crowley stayed smiling, patiently waiting, refusing to take it for an answer. Aziraphale looked at him and shook his head, suddenly aware of Crowley's attire. "Don't you ever try to," his mouth fumbled on the words, the taste strange on his tongue as they fell out anyway, "try to dress less appealing," he sighed. Aziraphale wasn't sure what it was about Crowley that made him inheritably fashionable, but it certainly had to be some type of demonic distraction. The differences between their outfits weren't completely apparent. As usual, Aziraphale adoned himself in light colors, and Crowley had some type of black garment on. Today, however, Crowley's jacket wore form-fitting, material tight around lean limbs and muscles. The jacket had little red accents, unnoticeable unless you were standing close, and with each breath Crowley seemed impossibly closer to him. The frills and cuffs found on everyone else in the crowd were absent. He worse his hair curled, cut just behind his ears, the same pair of glasses he'd been wearing when he had in London pushed slightly down his nose so Aziraphale could barely see the yellow of his eyes poked out.

"Yes, well, Heaven seemed to think America had gotten a little _too _excited, and I had tried to convince them I would be of more assistance with the monarchy, but they insisted _someone_ come to the colonies and try to lend a hand, and if I wouldn't have gone they probably would've sent Michael-" Crowley's grin melted sourly, as he cocked his head back and released a loud groan. Aziraphale ignored him, "so I thought perhaps I could lend some assistance but I ended up on a bloody tea ship _William _that landed quite far from here and now I see things have become quite mad!"

"Revolution, angel," Crowley nodded, to which Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. In turn, Crowley raised his hands, as if to assort his innocence. "They were quite headed that way when I arrived, angel. Even if they don't know it yet."

"Certainly they can't really expect-they can't think they could win a war with Britain," Aziraphale whispered, his top teeth sinking slowly on his lip.

"Well, they certainly are looking _willing _to try."

"And this business about the tea, they're keeping good men from being able to do their jobs! _You_ were supposed to make sure it found its way off of the ship," Aziraphale said, his voice almost melting into a little hiss.

"Don't accuse me of not doing your job properly, Aziraphale," Crowley snarled back, his lip curled. "The humans managed to halt that all on their own. There was nothing else I could've done."

Aziraphale muttered something about miracling the tea off of the ship, but Crowley ignored it. He had been here as every single one of the twenty days ticket by, the weight of British law weighing down that the _Dartmouth _needed to be unloaded before custom officials would confiscate the delivered boxes.

"What do you think will happen, now that time is up?" Aziraphale asked, his body tense from the nerves coursing through him. His heartbeat thumped loudly, almost enough for Crowley to pick up on it.

Crowley's lips turned upwards once more, his teeth poking out from behind his smile. This time, it even managed to reach his eyes, as his glasses slipped down his nose just enough for Aziraphale to completely capture the amusement on his face. "Well, I rather think they'll dump it all into the ocean." Aziraphale let out a disapproving sigh, almost mimicking one Crowley had given him years ago as they watched Noah load the arc.

"Dump-dump the tea," Aziraphale looked exasperated. "What is that even going to prove? The amount of pollution-"

"Yeah, but y'know they don't really know about that yet so it's not really a big deal. It's just a little light protesting, 'Ziraphale." Crowley placed his palm on Aziraphale's shoulder, fingers spreading out to give him a light squeeze.

"Not...not a big deal," Aziraphale let out a little gasp. "My _dear _I assure you all this protesting is in fact a _big deal._" He muttered something under his breath, as if he was trying really hard to be discreet, but it was still enough for Crowley to make out some of the words.

"What was that," he said, his teeth grinded against each other. His eyes, which had just barely been filled with an almost childlike mischief, turned much darker. "_I _don't mindlessly approve of rebellion," he growled, his hand on the angel's shoulder tightening slightly. Aziraphale winced under the pressure. Crowley's eyes glanced around the crowd. He knew what war meant, he had experienced it first hand one too many times.

Aziraphale reached his hand to sit on top of Crowley's, removing the pressure from his shoulder but he did not let go. His thick fingers slid through the gaps between Crowley's bony fingers, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Forgive me," he whispered. The soft words, spoken only audible to Crowley's ears, relaxed his features as he looked down at their joined hands. "I didn't intend to overstep, my dear."

Crowley nodded, slowly coming back to his senses. The heat coming from the angel's hand around his reminded him slightly of the summer sun, giving it just a little burn, but he found himself unwilling to let go just yet. With his free hand, he pushed his glasses to cover his eyes. "They won't _actually _dump the tea," Crowley assured him, as he began to pull Aziraphale through the crowd. "Adams wasn't fully for the idea even though I did try to convince him. Now, I say my work here is quite done and there's not much you can do, I'm afraid." Aziraphale looked prepared to interject, but Crowley motioned his hand away from the crowd and towards the center of town. "I know an excellent spot for lunch," he offered. Aziraphale followed.

The tea was dumped, but Heaven supported the turn of events. Another nation to develop and grow _under _God, with Liberty and Justice for All, after all. Countless souls to be secured for God. Hell was pleased-war was on its way, pitting brother against brother in its wake.

xxxxx

His fingers curled tightly into the rough fabric of the bed. " 'Zzzziraphale," Crowley's voice vibrated in a low tone to the empty, still room. His eyes remained shut, body and mind sound asleep.

* * *

Thanks for reading! This started off as a weird little fic that wouldn't get out of my head, and now it's over 4000 words and still has another chapter to go. I haven't written anything for a very long time, so I hope you guys liked it and stay tuned for chapter 2. I hope to have it finished by July 7th.


End file.
